


that one about sam getting all the tattoos

by rei_c



Series: The Genderfluid(ity) 'Verse [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canonical Character Death, Dean is Bad at Feelings, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderbending, M/M, Pet Names, Tattooed Sam, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 06:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6646027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's always had an issue with tattoos. It takes Dean too long to figure out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that one about sam getting all the tattoos

_One_.

 

The first tattoo Sam gets is the anti-possession tattoo, sitting down in the chair after Dean and keeping his eyes closed and his jaw clenched while the ink's being stabbed into his skin. He's itchy for weeks after, fingers constantly rubbing over the tattoo as it heals and even after, scratching at it, picking at it, can't seem to let it settle in and forget about it. Dean wonders if it has something to do with the demon their father's chasing, why Dad won't let them help, sent them to fucking Indiana instead. The tattoo heals, though, and cleanly, and that's the end of it. 

 

_Two_.

The second, third, fourth, and fifth tattoos are a surprise. Sam's gone when Dean gives up on the Impala for the night; Bobby says that the car's coming along and to give his brother time, but Dean frets until Sam's in his sight again. Sam comes back but doesn't say anything about where he'd been, just lifts the six-pack in one hand and the apple pie in the other. 

Bribery. Huh. 

It takes a few weeks before he notices the white-inked names and dates between Sam's shoulder-blades, one splash of colour showing off so bright against Sam's skin and in contrast to the other letters and numbers. Dean feels like such an asshole, too focused on his father's death to take care of the living brother right next to him, grieving as well. 

Dean doesn't ask about the new tattoos, just lets his fingers glide over them when he finally notices, thumb tracing the line that says _DW - 1979 ~ ∞_. The infinity symbol is a green the colour of Dean's eyes. 

Dean asks why and Sam says that he never wants to forget why he's doing the things he's doing. 

 

_Three_.

The tattoos transfer over when Dean doses Sam with the elixir for the first time. She acts like an itch has finally been scratched; she doesn't rub at the tattoos, doesn't move her shoulders in the car as if trying to get something off her back, doesn't look at them in motel mirrors with the same closed-off eyes as when she's male. 

It's nothing that she's brought up so Dean does, the next morning, when he catches her looking at tattoo patterns and art online. There are a few sketches of flowers, some awesome watercoloured shit, poetry carving up rib-lines and quotes on collarbones. Sam's got a notebook out as well, has sketched out a few protection sigils -- and some symbols that make Dean's heart ache for his sister: peace of mind, safety, family togetherness, protection, happiness. 

"Planning on getting some new ink?" Dean asks, rubbing his hair with a towel and waiting for the crappy motel fan to clear the bathroom of steam. 

Sam jerks; it looks for a moment as if she's going to try and hide this, close the browser tab and move the notebook. She doesn't, though. Her shoulders slump like she's giving in, and she says, "Yeah, maybe someday," without much enthusiasm. 

Dean leans down, presses a kiss to her cheek, says, "I think you should add one that says _Dean_." 

"Only if you get one with my name," Sam replies. 

It took a minute, and she's not as lighthearted as Dean about it, sounds pretty damn serious when Dean was only joking. He finds he likes the idea, though -- his name on her skin, forever, echoing the way he hopes his name is scrawled across her heart. He's never really been a big fan of tattoos -- it's nothing personal, he doesn't mind other people getting 'em and thinks that some tattoos are downright beautiful -- but he'd do this. 

"We'll find a good place," he says, getting dressed. 

"No," Sam says. "It's a stupid idea; the fewer identifying marks we have, the better. You can just attack me with a Sharpie if you're feeling possessive."

Dean's not exactly disappointed, more confused. Sam's serious about this in a way Dean hadn't expected; she's put her foot down against it. The logic makes sense, of course, it's harder to be someone else with your sibling's name on -- 

He stops there, rewinds that thought, goes over it again: harder to be someone else with names on your skin forever and ever. It's not that she thinks Dean's would leave her, he knows that, he _does_ , but there's something important in this. If it's not him, then --

Sam doesn't like the tattoos when he's male, but she wants more. He's never been comfortable with them, but she accepts them as a part of her. Sam's been planning out more, looks like for a while now, judging by the state of the notebook, but Dean has never seen that notebook before. 

//

Dean asks, a couple months later, because it's the one thing he can't come up with an answer for. They're both half-drunk and recovering from the second orgasm of the night, tangled together with their feet under the covers. Sam's half-asleep on his stomach and Dean's propped up above him, playing with his own come as it leaks out of Sam's hole, pushing it back in, his nails tracing lines on Sam's ass while he waits for the come to show again. 

"So, Sam," he says, and Sam groans. "No, no," Dean says, "don't be like that, okay? I just -- there's this question I have. And I want you to tell me to fuck off if you don't wanna answer. Hear me? You don't have to answer if you don't want to." 

Sam lets out a sigh as he rolls over, Dean a little irritated at the loss of Sam's ass, because Sam has a _great_ ass, but he gets to see Sam's dick this way -- you win some, you lose some, he guesses, especially since he doesn't see much of Sam's dick these days. "'Kay," Sam says, cautious. 

Dean swallows, collapses onto the bed so he's the same eye-level as Sam, looks right at his brother as he asks, "The tattoos. What's the deal?" 

"Nothing," Sam says. His eyes are dark, his muscles tense. Dean thinks that was more of an instant reaction than a real answer, so he waits, patient, their gazes locked together and simmering between them. "Okay, fine, _something_ ," Sam finally says. He rolls over, away from Dean, slightly hunched in on himself, as much as he can curve his body, anyway. "What d'you wanna know?" 

"You haven't gotten any more," Dean says, just as careful as Sam had been a moment before. "You've been thinking about it for a long time, too. At least since college but I'd bet high school." Dean takes a deep breath, aches to touch Sam, holds still instead. "So why aren't you covered in ink?" 

Sam sits up, throws his legs off the bed, puts his hands on his thighs and stares at the floor. Dean sits up as well, worried, and he's about to remind Sam that he doesn't have to answer, as Sam says, "This isn't me."

This time, Dean doesn't stop himself; he reaches, sets his palm over the green infinity symbol inked on Sam's back. "You're gonna have to be a little more specific than that, sweetheart," he says, gentle. "Started, might as well just get it all out." 

"Yeah," Sam says, word riding the breath of an exhale. He doesn't move, doesn't say anything, and then words come pouring out, each one of them hitting Dean harder and harder. "I love it, y'know? Being a woman? I've never felt like myself, like I fit, like I was supposed to be born the way I was born. When we found out about the other special kids, I thought maybe that was it, but I've always felt like this. Always felt -- wrong. The -- the cross-dressing was enough to take the edge off but now that I've felt what it's like to be female, I just."

"You just?" Dean prods. 

Sam shakes his head, stands up, puts on sweats and a t-shirt. Armour, Dean realises. Or a costume. "I wasn't born like that," he says, words clipping out at a pace Dean can barely keep up with. "This is what I'm meant to be and I just need to deal with it. I mean, what would Dad have thought, if he'd ever caught his son playing dress-up? Or Mom? And Jess -- I never told her, didn't breathe a word of it. I'm a fake, Dean, just posing as a woman for a few days when I get whammied and I should be grateful for the chance to finally feel at home in my own skin even if it's only for a couple days, but it's a betrayal, too, of so many people." 

There's a lot there to think through but not an answer to Dean's question. "The tattoos?"

"Getting tattooed," Sam says, turning around to look at Dean, "it feels like I'm doing it to someone else. It's like I'm possessing this skin, I guess, and I'm using this body and going out, getting ink when the real owner doesn't have any choice. This isn't me, Dean. This body isn't mine. It seems wrong to mark it up when it belongs to someone else." 

"And you put the names on," Dean says, "to remind yourself of all the people you thought you might disappoint for being who you are?" Dean gets up, suddenly furious, and he backs Sam up against the wall, grips Sam's cheeks tight in his hands. "You have never disappointed me, Sam. Impressed me, worried me, scared the hell out of me, sure, but you're not a disappointment. Understand?" Sam doesn't say anything, eyes reddening and welling up with tears. " _Understand_?" 

Sam sniffs, tries to look away. Dean won't let him, keeps them facing each other. "Yeah," he says. "I understand." 

"How long?" Dean asks. Sam frowns; shakes his head. "How long have you felt like this?" There's a tiny hint of a snort getting stuck in Sam's throat and, apparently, that's enough to let the tears loose. A few drop from each eye, and Dean wipes them up with his fingers, soft, worried. "How long, Sam?"

"Forever," Sam says, and the simple reply tears Dean in two.

He's not exactly sure how, but he gets Sam in bed, curls up tight around Sam, and holds Sam while Sam gives in to the silent sobbing he started to use at night after Dad told him to straighten up, to act like a man -- and doesn't that hurt, now, knowing how that must have affected Sam. 

For a minute, Dean thinks about confessing. He's the one that made this worse by spiking Sam's drinks with the elixir, gave Sam something he's always wanted and then stole it back, dangling it in front of him like anything he's ever wanted. He feels so fucking guilty now and maybe it'd be good to come clean tonight since Sam has. 

He worries, though. He's played out so many scenarios in his imagination of Sam finding out and they never end well. Sometimes Sam's so angry at him that he leaves and they never talk again. Sometimes he freaks out about Dean going to a witch and he goes on some sort of crusade to kill every witch in the country so Dean never gets tempted to do it again. Sometimes it's that Dean's broken all the trust between them, so fragile since their father died, and Sam never trusts him again, slowly pulls away from Dean until they might as well be strangers. The worst endings, though, have him deciding that he wants to be like this forever -- just not with Dean. 

By the time he decides to throw a pair of loaded dice in fate's direction, Sam's asleep. 

Of course. 

 

_Four_.

For Sam's forty-fifth birthday, Dean schedules her a session with her favourite tattoo artist. He has to book the appointment months in advance and he wants to tell Sam so fucking badly, but the look on her face when they get to the studio is worth every bleeding tongue from biting back the words. She turns, looks at Dean, her eyes wide, and holds his gaze for a moment before she practically lunges across the bench seat, presses tiny little kisses up and down his neck and jaw and cheeks, saying things that make Dean hold her a little tighter: thank you, best brother ever, the only one who ever knew her, how much this means to her, how much she loves him.

Dean might be older now, and he woke Sam up by sliding into her, rocking as gently as he could to lead them both to languid, rolling orgasms, but he could go again. Sam can tell, like always, and she finally slows down and stops, puts one knee between Dean's legs and presses. 

"Can't be late," she says, and pecks at Dean's lips before she scrambles out of the car and heads inside. 

Dean looks down at his dick, says, "Tonight, promise," and waits until he's soft again to get out of the car and follow Sam inside. 

The receptionist grins at him, gestures at the back room, and Dean throws a thank you and a smile in her direction, heading towards a door with a simple sign reminding people to knock before they enter. Dean smirks, remembers just why Bette put up that sign in the first place, but he does knock. He cracks open the door, sees Sam already half-naked, chest-down on the table. "Good?"

"Yeah," Sam says, and she looks relaxed, settled in her skin, as if every tattoo on her is tying her flesh to her soul just that little bit tighter. "You stayin'? You'll get bored." 

"Don't mind," Dean says. "I got my phone; if I get antsy I'll head out for coffee or something." Sam smiles, makes a noise of agreement, and Dean slips into the room, sits on the chair in the corner. 

Even though he's seen it, been there for every step of the process, he loses his breath every time he looks at Sam's tattoos. There are so many, quite a few of them copied from Sam's notebook, and the colours and symbols and sigils and quotes and poetry and language-of-flower trellises swirl into a glittering miasmic mess that covers her back and arms, down to the wrists. 

He especially loves the phoenix on her right forearm, wings outstretched to circle her wrist like a bracelet, brilliant oranges and reds and yellows. It was the first one she got, nearly shook the whole time like she couldn't believe it, and the curves of the phoenix's wings spell out Dean's name. 

Dean's favourite, though, hands down, is the band of tiny interlocking Celtic knots around her left ring finger. Sam hadn't been able to stop stroking it and Dean couldn't keep his hands off it, off of the sign that Sam is his, really _his_. The first time he licked it, sucked the finger into his mouth down to the knuckle, scraping his teeth over the ring, Sam came, just like that, her other hand clutching him hard enough to leave bruises. 

Bette, the tattoo artist and owner of the shop, clears her throat and Dean blinks, shakes himself out of that memory, says, "Sorry." 

Sam blinks sleepy eyes at him -- how she can feel so relaxed when needles are going to be stabbing in and out of her skin, branding her, baffles Dean. She makes an inquiring noise but Dean shakes his head and Sam closes her eyes again. 

"Running out of room, here," the artist tells Sam, smoothing her hand down Sam's back. Anyone else, Dean would glare -- shit, he's still so furiously possessive -- but they've known Bette for a whole handful of years now and she's more focused on the art than on the half-naked body under those colours. That's just one reason Bette's earned enough of Dean's trust to touch Sam however Sam will allow. "It's a good thing you planned this out so carefully. Tilt your chin down, please." 

Dean's frowned, just for a second, puzzled at the mention of a plan, but Sam's already moved her head, showing Bette the back of her neck, the wisps of hair that aren't long enough to pull into the bun on the top of her head, the tiny little sun centred in her neck right on the hairline. There's some blank space, sure, but Dean's not really sure what Sam could be planning that would take the hours he had to book. 

Bette strokes Sam's neck, tilts her head to the left and right, purses her lips as she thinks. "Still wanna do it in black? We could put some colour up here." 

"Black," Sam says. 

"You got it, Sam," Bette says, heading to the sink to wash her hands. "Go ahead and sleep; we're good." 

Sam murmurs acquiescence and she's completely out by the time Bette's standing over Sam, taking a few deep breaths to focus and centre herself. Dean leans back, watches as Bette starts, and soon enough he's asleep, too, lulled by the sound of the machine. 

When he wakes up, Sam's got her hoodie on, zipped up, and she's crouched in front of him. "Ready to go?" she asks. "I can drive if you want; Bette woke me up an hour ago." 

"Shouldn't've let me sleep," Dean grumps, wiping his eyes clean. He stands, pulls Sam upright as well, and asks, "I can't see it?" Every other tattoo, Sam's been so eager to show him, to get his opinion, but right now she's completely covered. 

"Not yet," she says.

Dean's not sure why this one is different but it is, apparently, and Sam doesn't let Dean see her back until it's healed, always keeps a shirt on when they fuck, always showers alone, changes in the bathroom. Dean's insanely curious because Sam's going to a lot of effort, especially with the ointment and lotion; how she can reach her back is a mystery to him. 

He's helped her through the healing process before, every time, even the ones on her arms, fingers, wrists, and he kind of misses it. Sam always goes puddle-like under his touch, hissing at the first swipe of lotion over her inflamed and healing skin but then getting into it, so wet and desperate for him by the time he starts working into her that it's no effort to bottom out in one stroke. 

She likes it even better once they stop with the lotion, though, when Dean leans downs and drags his teeth over the new ink, follows it with his tongue to take the sting away. Those are the times when Dean's a little slower, a little more careful of her. He's never said it but he hopes she realises that this is one more way he shows how much he loves her. No matter how, no matter what body she's in, no matter if she's Samuel or Samantha or just Sam -- as long as she's good, he's good. 

She does, though, finally say she's ready. It's all Dean can do to not rip the shirt off of her with his bare hands -- his shirt, and that will never not get him going, shit. She's got shy eyes, blush starting to show up on her cheeks, under her eyebrows. Dean perches on the edge of the bed, stares as she faces him, takes off the shirt and bra, leaving her just in a pair of low-rise boyshorts, the kind she likes best. 

"Okay," she says. "Just -- well," and she sounds scared, the way she hasn't since she was young and crying over his confession about nail polish, since Dean called him 'sweetheart' for the very first time. She turns around, shoulders tight with worry.

Dean stares, studies her back, at first, because he's not exactly sure what he's supposed to be looking at. Sam steps backwards, the back of her legs bumping against Dean's knees, and holds her breath. 

There's something -- he puts his fingertip on a solid stripe of black, right up her spine, and traces it downwards, hand splaying over the spindly lines at the bottom that seem to wind in and around the other tattoos. Sam definitely planned this out; everything fits together so perfectly. He frowns at those lines, though, and leans close, feels his breath catch as he sees that they're not lines, they're _runes_ , and they all, every single one of them, spell out Dean's name. 

He stares, runs his fingers ever-so-lightly over each and every line, then traces his nails back up her spine. Dean pulls Sam down to sit on his lap so he can see the top and he's not fluent in Hebrew like Sam so he scratches his fingernail along one of the lines in question.

"It's -- it's -- uh," Sam says, stutters. "Tree of Life." 

Dean can see it now: the intricate root system, the redwood-tall tree trunk that, on closer look, does curve a slight bit, and the branches at the top, spanning Sam's neck, edges going up behind her ears and skimming over the top of her shoulders, dropping leaves along the lines of her collarbone. 

Sam clears her throat, says, "Because I'm -- I'm only who I am because of you. So, y'know." 

"That's why the roots are made from my name," Dean says, picking up where Sam trailed off. "And what are the branches? What do they say, Sam?" 

"Sweetheart," she murmurs. 

Dean lets out a long exhale between his teeth. Dean as the roots of Sam's life, her growth reflected by the tree trunk, and the branches, the ones straining to reach the tiny sun tattoo she's had for a year -- those are who Sam is, thanks to Dean, what she's grown into, maybe even how she's finally come to see herself. 

Fuck. She's trying to kill him. 

Sam swallows, asks, "D'you -- is it okay?" 

Dean presses his forehead against Sam's neck, can't help running his tongue over one of those branches. Sam shudders and Dean lets out a huff of laughter against Sam's skin. "More than. This is -- Sam, I don't -- fuck."

"For a long time, I didn't think both of us would be alive for this one," Sam admits, and Dean wraps his arms around her, holds her tight at the thought. "But it -- first your name, then the ring, and now -- it's sappy, I get it, but Dean, you have to realise," she says, fighting to find the words, maybe, or simply struggling to say them. "I've loved you my whole life. You're the only person that's ever -- you're the only reason I'm here." 

"No warning for a chick-flick moment?" Dean says, but there's no heat in the question, just an attempt to lighten the mood a little, pull back from the emotional precipice Dean can feel them approaching. 

He's not wrong, either; Sam twists in Dean's hold, ends up with her legs slung over Dean's thighs, one of Dean's hands holding her in place. She puts one hand on Dean's heart, rests her head against his shoulder. "I'm only here 'cause of you, Dean. Not alive, or female, or whatever, but _here_." She looks up at him, says, lip trembling, "Even when I started off wrong, you still -- the only reason I'm here is for you."

"Look, Sam," he says, has to lick his lips because they're cracking, close to bleeding with how dry his mouth has gone. "It's not -- it's both of us, okay? Because without you, y'know -- without you, there's no reason -- it's us, Sam. It's always us." 

Sam moves, kisses him, and he thumbs tear-tracks from her cheeks when she pulls back. "I want you to take me to bed now," she says. 

Dean chuckles, noses at her hair. "Yes, your majesty," he says, and Sam smacks him. 

He doesn't call her that again. Instead, when he's pulling down her panties, when he's burying his face in her, when he's kissing her, when he's inside her, he just keeps saying, "Sweetheart," over and over again. 

"Again," Sam keeps murmuring back, the first time in so long that she's demanded to hear it -- quickly followed by the second, and third, and fourth, on and on and on until she comes with a choked little whimper of Dean's name. 

She's so -- she's fucking -- " _Sweetheart_ ," he says, as he comes, and hopes Sam hears everything he's thinking, everything he's always meant, everything she is to him, in that one word. 

Sam holds him, kisses him, and just when Dean thinks that maybe he's caught his breath, she looks at him and says, "Again."

Any other time, Dean would make a joke about recovery time, about how they really need to slow down before they die of sex-induced heart attacks, but this time he just smiles, rubs his nose against hers, and says what she wants to hear. 

"Sweetheart."


End file.
